Just One More

I am confident that everything I have to give to my kids is never enough. All night long, they ask for things, all the things, every single thing. Just one more kiss. Just one more hug. Just one more song. Just one more book. Just one more game of tag. Just one more slow gathering of the outdoor toys. And if I ask them to do something beyond themselves, like, say, pick up their shoes and put them in the closet, it is as if I have shot their dog and sentenced them to a lifetime of slave labor.

I hate that all of the asking for more all of the time makes me so angry and irritated. I don't want to give you another hug because I just gave you SIX, AND we read a story, and you've gone to the bathroom twice, and before that I rocked you and sang "Wagon Wheel," and before that, you took a bath that lasted ten minutes longer than I wanted it to because you started to whine about letting the water out of the tub, and no, you can't watch until the next commercial break, because that's what you said the last commercial break.

Noooooooooooooooooo.

Just, just, just be content, please! I love you so much and I don't want to yell or make you cry or turn you down or leave you kicking and screaming in bed because you pushed us all beyond your regular bedtime and now you are over-tired and I am angry that you aren't listening. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Just be content. What more can I give?

I think this is why this job of mothering is so exhausting. I can do the dishes and the laundry and make the dinners and vacuum (occasionally). I can do those things with ease and a jolly spirit. It's the Just-One-More disease that kills me. It wipes me clean out. After a night of severe Just-One-More-itis, I am bankrupt. Fill me with American Honey and send me to the couch for a romantic comedy or a dozen rounds of Candy Crush Saga or a book. Or just send me to bed.

I don't know the antidote to Just-One-More-itis. It appears as if I will daily disappoint my children by denying them just one more of something.

Unfortunately, it's the human condition. Ambition bites the heels of contentment all day, every day - in my case, it's just one more publication, just one more essay. I have to fight against my successes and failures defining my self-worth and instead remind myself that the things that I find most satisfying do not come with an acceptance letter: planting seeds and watching them grow, laughing with my husband, snuggling with my kids on the couch, writing for the sake of creating art, reading a good book, long talks with wine or coffee with friends, eating together with family... these activities dwell in the land of contentment. Ambition runs right over those things. Just one more level on Candy Crush Saga. Just one more.

What does it take to kill Just-One-More-itis? Persistence. Rationale. Setting priorities. Prayer. Patience. I think it's one of those diseases that keeps dormant for a time, and then just when you think you're cured, the symptoms start popping up again: oh, maybe just one more. It's no big deal. Just one more.

No more. Be content.

Advent Day 13: A Special Treat

Public Service Announcement: Tonight's post is written with chocolate and merlot, preceded by a chocolate chip cookie, potentially followed by more chocolate. And more merlot.

I'm not sure why tonight beat the snot out of me. Maybe several weeks of whizzing about has finally provoked the over-tired toddler in me to throw a tantrum.  After I picked up the kids from their respective child care locales, we grabbed a hot-and-ready pizza from Little Caesars and darted home to eat in a hurry before Lydia's basketball practice.  After last time, there was no way in heaven or on Earth I was going to wrestle Henry into captivity for an entire hour in the gym, so while Lydia practiced, the boys and I went to Hawkins to pick up some groceries (yay, no grocery shopping tomorrow!) and to cash in the advent activity for today-- pick out a special treat.  We visited the delicious Hawkins bakery and bought two iced sugar cookies for Lydia and Elvis, a spritz snowman for Henry, and a chocolate chip cookie for mama.

Let. Me. Go!

Lyd had pictures tonight, too, so there was no avoiding bringing the boys back into the gym for the remainder of practice.  I should've gotten Henry a bigger cookie, ("Stillwell, angel, have another chocolate bar!") because he gobbled up the spritz snowman before I could say, Frosty the Snowman had to hurry on his way... which is what I wanted to do, hurry on our way.  Henry tried to escape but I was too fast for him and found some Thomas the Tank Engine video through the YouTube app on my phone, which pacified him long enough for practice to end.  Then, it was standing about with a 30-pound squirming worm in my arms and a 5-year-old clinging to my pantleg like I asked him not to five THOUSAND times while we waited for every girl on the team to get her picture taken.  On the way to the car, Henry kept squawking, "AWK! AWK!" so I let him walk but forced him to hold my hand, which he hated and did the wet-noodle-collapse-on-the-asphalt trick.  I picked his arched self up, which he hated even more, and tried to put him in his carseat, but it's hard to bend a U-shaped body back to a sitting position.  "Sit DOWN!  Mama's gonna lose it in a minute, Henry!" I squeaked.  All three kids laughed at me.

God, I love parenting.

Then it was home to take the fastest bath on the planet-- in fact, I'm not sure the boys got wet at all-- and then to bed to bed to bed!  Yay!  The older two were out before I headed back down the stairs, but I don't think Henry stopped singing and talking to himself until almost 9 p.m. He'll be buckets of fun tomorrow. 

The tantrum-throwing, over-tired toddler in me could've crawled underneath a crocheted blanket and watched a romantic comedy, but tomorrow is trash day, and thank God I saw the Hawkins plastic bag on the table because I would've forgotten all about the bags of eggs, sausage, bacon, and yogurt just waiting to spoil in the back of the kid hauler.  Trash can on the curb, groceries in the refrigerator, sticky spot on the floor grabbing my sock every time I walk past the silverware drawer.  Oh. Well.

I unloaded the dishwasher but turned off the light in the kitchen before I could notice the sink still full of dishes from this morning. But I had to flick the switch back on to find the wine and chocolate.  Don't worry, I was careful to shield my eyes and then dashed away again.  I'm safe now in the living room away from those oatmeal-crusted bowls and those lipstick-stained coffee mugs.

I thought about the laundry briefly, but blogging about advent seemed like a much better use of my time, even though I don't think Henry is going to be wearing any pants tomorrow. 

All of this to say tonight was one of those nights that makes me want to quit. All things. Am I absolutely insane to think I can do this AND take classes toward a master's degree?  I can't keep all of *this* (waving arms frantically, the universal symbol for utter chaos and disorder) together as it is.  Yeah, I see you --  o.O  -- stop looking at me like that.  We serve crazy here every night.

My advent calendar could've ended December 19-- all I'm anticipating right this minute is the end of work for 2012 and the beginning of agenda-free Christmas vacation.  That whole waiting-to-celebrate-the-birth-of-baby-Jesus-God-with-us-prince-of-peace thing is totally overrated.  Okay, not really.  I just want to see my husband for more than a couple of hours before he takes a plane to another state, to disengage my alarm for two whole weeks, to shift into a slower pace of life instead of this frantic running all the time.

And all I really want for Christmas is to think only about family, friends, love, joy, and peace... and to indulge in tasty food and good wine.  Bring it, Advent.  Bring. It. On. 

Ambition and Contentment

What is it about the human spirit that itches the inside of us and drives us to look beyond where we are right now toward some blurry-eyed future, probes us to keep climbing and reaching for more, to keep creating, inventing, dreaming, brainstorming, vision-casting, striving and risking in spite of the joys and possibilities all around you in your present circumstances?

It's been a few days or more since I've sat down to write something.  After a little while of not writing, two things happen. The first, I don't miss it.  I slip into the routine of daily life like a favorite pair of blue jeans, usually wearing my favorite pair of blue jeans, and I cook and clean and garden and fold laundry and think about making homemade Christmas presents.  It's wonderful.  It's immediate.  They are dozens of moments to savor.

The second reaction after not writing for a few days or a week is this anxious twitch in my brain.  Sometimes it is flicked to life by the joys of the day, a thought or meditation or prayer, a realization, a moment with my children or husband, and I dance with excitement for a pen or the quiet of an evening in front of the computer so I can get it out.  But there are other moments when anxiety wells up.  If I'm not writing, I won't have anything new to revise, and without anything new to revise, there's nothing sharpened and tuned to a finished version, nothing to submit to journals, nothing to be rejected or accepted, nothing to be published, nothing to be recognized, nothing to add to a growing resume of publications.  But to what end is all of this?  To what end, when the anxiety detaches the writer from her life, from her family and friends, and leaves her carefully studying her own accomplishments?

It is so difficult to put a stopper on personal ambition in the presence of contentment.  Ambition is a buzzing fly around my picnic lunch.  I just want to enjoy my italian sausage and watermelon. 

And yet.  And yet.  I love to write.  I love to utter whatever notion fluttered through and landed for a spell so someone else might read it and feel something, experience something, have that tight part in their chests softened a bit.  I want to be used to touch people's souls.  Is that too much to ask?  Coupled with the actual writing is wanting that writing to be read, and that rubs shoulders with pride and recognition, then vanity and arrogance.

How do you buttress yourself against conceit and vanity while still pursuing your dreams and goals?  How do you stay humble enough to receive grace to share truths eloquently?  How do you push forward with enough drive to achieve your goals but with enough restraint to avoid sacrificing your family along the way?  It seems like there is a constant need for reflection and assessment: how are the kids?  How is my husband?  What self-care am I doing?  When was the last time I saw my friends?  How much of my time is spent wondering when I'll receive my next acceptance/rejection?  How fully have I invested in navel gazing lately? 

On the other hand, it is the buzzing fly of ambition and curiosity that has provoked men and women throughout the ages to create and consider objects of wonder and stories of life that touch the hearts of men and women throughout the ages. Is it wrong to want to be a part of that legacy?  No, but I do not want to neglect the legacy I leave my family in the process.

Someone buy this gal a set of weights and measures.  I got me some balancin' to do.

That Isn't on My 30th Year Goal List

It's been a while since I checked in on my 30th Year Goals.  Ever since the summer residency my reading and writing efforts have been unimpressive.  Besides a draft of an essay that probably won't ever see the light of day because it's so bad, I've written one poem and a short lyric essay of about 750 words. I've started about half a dozen books, some from my "read ten books list" and then others that have been recommended, but lately all I want to do after the kids go to sleep is hang out on the couch with my husband and watch movies or listen to him play the guitar and sing along.

Part of this is because I've been exercising in the mornings before work, and the wake-up call is early.  By the time the day is over, I'm just plain done with anything that requires brain activity.  I'm rather sure if I picked up a book I'd fall asleep within the first five pages.  Exercising at the gym wasn't on my 30th year list.

I expected weekday writing and reading to drop off with the kids in soccer and implementing date night again, but I had hoped that the weekend reading and writing would ramp up, since my weekend evenings are now husband-free.  Instead, I've watched a lot of romantic comedies. That wasn't on my 30th year list either.

I think the next time something comes up (like laundry or dishes), I'm going to let my husband/boss/friends/church/family know that I'm exempt because it wasn't on my 30th year list. Sorry! :) Of course, neither was sleeping, so maybe my body will pay attention if I tell it to stop spending 1/3 of every 24 hours doing nothing.

The good news is that I'm not in a binding contract with my 30th year list of goals.  They are goals, not vows, after all.  I also wrote the list in January, and it's amazing how much changes in the course of ten months.  I didn't know that Pruning Burning Bushes would be published this year or that I would be trying to schedule readings from it this fall.  If I had known that, I might have added something about my book to the goal list.  I also didn't know that we would become such foodies, losing weight and feeling better in 2012.  Can I retroactively add goals to the goal list so that I can check them off?  Absolutely! 

In general I feel good about the status of my goal list for 2012.  We're making progress in most areas, and the areas I'm not are at least on my radar or in "continuous improvement."  We have a ways to go in the credit card debt area but we have a plan, at least.  Bible study and daily quiet time looks more like frantic random prayers on the treadmill, spurts of conversation with the Holy Spirit in times of stress and thanksgiving, and the occasional deep breath appreciation of nature/family/seasons/life. 

The marathon or half-marathon idea is eliminated from the list; I laugh just reading it.  Sometimes you have to approach your goals realistically within the framework of real life in order to find balance.  I don't aspire to be a marathoner, and my guess is that it is hard to be a marathoner plus anything else.

I am glad that I didn't say "write 12 good poems" or "write 6 publishable essays."  I've surpassed 12 poems, though who knows if any of them are any good.  I'm close to six essays, maybe seven if I count the really bad one that won't ever see the light of day, and I'm way beyond that if I include the short essays and articles I've written for a few different blogs this fall.  This makes me feel better about myself but it also makes me wonder if I shouldn't have had a higher goal in mind.  Meh. I think instead of raising the bar in quantity, I can spend the rest of 2012 working on quality.

This has been a great exercise this year. It's something I've kept in the back of my mind, and having a place I can refer back to in order to see how I'm doing has been really handy.  It's helped me to keep perspective when I don't feel like I'm accomplishing much besides living, which should be enough, anyway.  I think that contentment and ambition don't have to be mutually exclusive.  It's possible to strive toward goals and be content, and whether ambitions succeed or fail should not shatter that contentment, especially when there's so much around us to be grateful for.

Things Left on the 30th Year List:

• cut our credit card debt in half (unrealistic at this point in the year, but pushing forward anyway)
• blog once a week (average isn't too far off)
• incorporate Bible reading and prayer into daily life more
• read ten books (eight down? I think?)

Not too shabby.  Maybe I can take the rest of 2012 off once I finish my reading list.